* * * * *

IGNORANT BLISS.

[Illustration]

  At noon through the open window
    Comes the scent of the new-mown hay. 
  I look out.  In the meadow yonder
    Are the little lambs at play. 
  They are all extremely foolish,
    Yet I haven’t the heart to hint
  That over the boundary wall there grows
    A beautiful bed of mint. 
          For a little lamb
          Will run to its mam. 
          And will say “O! dam,”
      At a hint, however well intentioned,
      When the awful name of mint is mentioned.

  At the close of day the burglar comes
    For to ply his gentle trade. 
  I fondly gaze on his jemmy, and
    Grow timid and quite afraid. 
  I wouldn’t for kingdoms have him know
    That my neighbours of titled rank
  Went abroad on a sudden last night and left
    Their jewels at COUTTS’s Bank. 
          For a burglar bold
          Grows harsh and cold
          When he finds he’s sold,
      And his burglar’s bosom heaves at knowing
      That the sell of a swag isn’t worth the stowing.

  I’m a poet—­you may not know it,
    But I am and hard up for “tin,”
  So I’ve written these clever verses
    And I hope they’ll get put in. 
  Yet Life is an awful lottery
    With a gruesome lot of blanks,
  And I wish the Editor hadn’t slips
    That are printed “Declined with Thanks.” 
          For it’s rather hard
          On a starving bard
          When his last trump card
      Is played, and he wishes himself bisected
      When his Muse’s lays come back—­rejected!

* * * * *

STORICULES.

III.—­THE DEAR OLD LADY.

There were three of them in the railway-carriage.  One was a Stockbroker; one was a Curate; one was an Old Lady.  They had been strangers to each other when they started; but it was near the end of the journey, and they were chatting pleasantly together now.  One could see that the little Old Lady was from the country; she was exquisitely neat and simple in appearance; there was an air of primness about her which one rarely sees in a city product.  She carried a big bunch of hedgerow flowers.  She seemed to be a little nervous about travelling, and still more nervous about encountering the noise and confusion of the great city.  She had asked the Stockbroker and Curate a good many questions about the sights that she ought to see, and how much she ought to pay the cabman, and which were the best shops.  “Not but what TOM will look after me,” she explained; “Tom’s a very good son to me, and he’ll be waiting on the platform for me.  And such a boy as he was too when he was younger!  Fruit!  There wasn’t anything that boy wouldn’t do to get it—­any kind of mischief.”  She grew garrulous on the subject of Tom’s infancy.  The two men answered her questions, and listened amusedly to her chatter.  Occasionally they interchanged smiles.  Presently the train got near to the station just before the terminus.  The Curate warned the Old Lady that the tickets would be collected there.